


where February is thirteen months long

by Raven (singlecrow)



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Galentine's Day 2014, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:57:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlecrow/pseuds/Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Indiana House Bill 1239 is hung up in committee on the day Ann gets in her car and drives down from Michigan, through bleak fields of corn, broken stubs under a vivid sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where February is thirteen months long

**Author's Note:**

> This really is a sad one, folks. The clue is in the character tags.

Indiana House Bill 1239 is hung up in committee on the day Ann gets in her car and drives down from Michigan, through bleak fields of corn, broken stubs under a vivid sky. She means to surprise Leslie at the statehouse, turn up with balloons and a cake and those things that make a noise when you blow into them, and April is Leslie's most senior aide - and Ann would never accuse Leslie of nepotism but she'd still like to know how the hell that works - and she probably wouldn't blink twice if Ann strode into Leslie's office armed with a helium canister and a spray can of whipped cream. But then Ann drives into the city and it's chilly and strange, as though she's come carrying the ghosts of all that dead land she crossed to get here, so the radio playing bubblegum pop sounds sad and the balloons bumping against the roof of her car look sad. Ann thinks that Leslie would charge on regardless. She catches a flash of blonde hair going around the corner of the block and leaves her car parked on the lines. 

Leslie comes to a stop a little distance away, leaning against the railings, looking down at the canal water gleaming dark and wintry. Ann gives her a moment, and then comes up beside her, pressing against the metal so their arms touch. "Ann," Leslie says, after a moment, with a note of disbelief in her voice, then hugs her with a fluid motion as though she was ready, as though she knew. Ann is wondering, even as she holds Leslie tightly, how much Leslie needs this; how long she's been waiting. 

"I heard," she says, as they draw back far enough to take a proper look at each other, Leslie's eyes wet and shining, "about the bill."

"Funding across the board for women's refuges," Leslie replies, promptly, "supplemented nutrition in pregnancy and new centres for early education. And" - as though she'd actually forgotten - "recognition of Galentine's Day as a state holiday, with particular celebration in public schools."

"That's great," Ann says, because it is, and it's got Leslie's legislative fingerprints all over it. Without even asking, Ann knows this is why Leslie didn't come to Michigan, even for a while. "How are you?" she adds, meaning it.

Leslie shrugs, one of her hands lifting towards the sky a little, and it's strange, and not strange at all, that Ann has seen Chris do that, too, under lake-effect snow and another sky. It's a reach for another half of a self. Leslie misses Ben. 

"I should head back," she says, a little confusedly, "I only - i just needed a minute."

Ann nods, and they start walking, arm-in-arm, back towards the statehouse. They go through the security line and the guy checking bags clearly wants to know who Ann is, but doesn't dare ask in the radiance of Leslie's glare; they head along the polished floors of corridors lined with busts of Indiana's luminaries and it's all a far cry from Pawnee City Hall, but Ann can make out a familiar cadence of yelling as they get closer to Leslie's office. Oddly, it makes her smile. 

The phone rings again as they step inside.

"Leslie Knope's office," April says, into the receiver. "Yeah, she died. Yeah, the newspaper got them the wrong way around. No, she can't talk to you. Call back never." 

"April!" Ann says, kind of horrified at that, but doesn't go on as April glares first at her, then at the phone.

"They need to stop fucking bugging her," she says, almost to herself, and Ann is startled by the softness in her face.

Leslie says, "April. Was that the Democratic National Committee? Barack Obama? No? Fine. Get us some coffee and cake and the balloons out of Ann's car." 

"How did you know," Ann starts, and Leslie waves an impatient hand.

"It's Galentine's Day! April, get your girl interns as well. Don't scare them."

April disappears with alacrity. Ann watches her go with amazement; when she turns back, Leslie has slumped a little, sitting on a chair the wrong way, looking at the ground as though defeated by that display of energy. Ann can't find a way to express, at this moment, how much she loves her. 

"Leslie," she says, a little desperately, and trails off, looking around the room. It's full of bright colours and pictures: the old familiar one of Hillary Clinton; another of Leslie and Ann, probably taken at JJ's Diner; one of the Pawnee Commons on the day it opened. The last time Ann visited, Ben's sister Stephanie was here, and so was Leslie's mom, and the picture taken on Leslie's wedding day was face-down. It's upright now, because Leslie Knope fights back against the senselessness of this world. "Leslie, are you okay?"

Leslie looks up and smiles, and doesn't answer. "Are you going to stay?" she asks, a little uncertainly.

"I have to," Ann says, "they've probably towed away my car" - and amazingly, Leslie laughs. Ann takes a deep breath and goes on. 

"So 1239 is in committee," she says, tentatively. "I mean - can you do anything more?"

She's expecting Leslie to say something about the work she's neglected while getting House Bill 1239 _into_ committee; or something about her constituents' needs; just, something, so they won't be standing in this quiet room, in this quiet winter, and Ann can get a rental if need be and drive herself all the way back to St. Paul. 

But Leslie says, equally tentatively, "We could go see a movie. Or something." 

"Or something," Ann says, gently.

"We could take April," Leslie says. She's studiedly not looking at the space of her office, nor at the sky beyond the window. Again, Ann's reminded of Chris. "We could get dinner after."

"Anything," Ann says, and the door opens to a chorus of April and her interns, who've found the helium and noisemakers in Ann's car. Ann holds Leslie's hand tight. "Anything you want," she says again.

Leslie smiles at that. It's a wan smile, but a real smile, and April throws a handful of confetti into her hair.


End file.
